While in North Wales, with others from Ty Newydd, I visited Portmeirion. The village was designed by Sir Clough Williams between 1925 and 1975 in the style of an Italian village. It is located on the estuary of the River Dwyryd about two miles from Porthmadog. The village has inspired many Read the rest of this entry »
‘Christ, what was that?’ Frank doesn’t answer but turns over, pulling the duvet with him. I roll out of bed and peek through the blinds. ‘Sounded like a car back firing.’
‘Not on Greenhayes. There aren’t any old bangers around here.’
I scan the cul-de-sac, looking for any sign of movement but it’s all quiet. The mock-tudor houses stand in a row and our bay window offers a good view. I notice movement on the porch next door. It would be a foolish burglar trying to gain entry at the front. Reaching for my glasses, I see more clearly. There’s naked woman slumped on the doormat. Her tapered legs stretch to the step and her skin’s all pearly in the moonlight.
‘Well I never.’ The woman hugs her knees, trying to hide her breasts the size of honeydews. ‘It’s Jenny. Herman must’ve chucked her out.’
‘I knew that marriage was never going to last.’
‘But it’s the middle of the night and she’s got nothing on.’ I grab Frank’s dressing gown and tie the belt around my waist, throwing the other robe over my shoulder.
‘Blimey, what a woman.’ Frank’s at the window now he knows there’s something worth watching. I stand beside him and we see Jenny shivering. ‘You can’t go interfering.’
‘I’m only going to lend her my robe.’
‘Herman went off his head when I cut a few inches off his precious Leylandii. You don’t want to make an enemy of him.’
‘I can’t leave Jenny stuck on the porch like that. I’ll never get a wink of sleep if I don’t help her.’
I leave the house, my slippers clip-clopping as I walk to the boundary. The night is clear but the damp air clings. Standing on tiptoes I peer over the wall. She sees me and scurries through the shrubs. Passing over the robe I notice her fingers are like ice. She pulls a smile but looks set to burst into tears.
‘Thank you.’ Jenny’s swollen top lip makes it hard for her to speak.
‘Might stop you getting a cold – I’d invite you back but Frank says no. Won’t hear of it after that last row he had with Herman.’
‘It’s okay.’ She struggles to get her arms into the sleeves. ‘Herman will let me in soon.’
‘Okay then.’
I still can’t sleep in spite of my good deed and when it’s time to get up, I’m like a dishrag. Limping to the window, I draw the blinds and there’s no sign of Jenny. She must’ve found refuge somewhere. When I get downstairs, there’s a parcel on the back porch. I peel back the brown paper and there’s my robe all fluffy and warm from the tumble dryer. There was no need to wash and return it so promptly. I find an envelope nestling by the collar and inside there’s a thank you note from Jenny. She’s signed her name in loopy handwriting and at the bottom, there’s a smiley face. Only this smiley face has a black eye. I wonder if it’s a coded message for help and I think about Jenny trapped in Herman’s executive home like a modern day Cinderella but without a prince in sight. I look again at the smiley face and decide it’s not a black eye just a blot from the ballpoint pen.
This story currently appears on Flash Fiction South West which celebrates National Flash Fiction Day on 16 May 2012.
I spent last week with members of the National Association for Writers in Education (NAWE) at Ty Newydd, the writers’ centre in Wales. The set up is rather like an Arvon Foundation course, where you are required to help prepare one meal during the week and you’re free to attend workshops/concentrate on your writing project, depending on the programme you’ve chosen. (The courses at Ty Newydd are well worth considering, if you’re interested in training to develop your writing.) My week in Wales was a delightful retreat, hosted by NAWE’s Anne Caldwell. Read the rest of this entry »
With two other families, we spent a day in Portsmouth. Arriving in plenty of time to hit the shops at the factory outlet at Gunwharf Quays (my summer wardrobe is now suitably supplemented) we also managed to have a look around the historic dockyard. While the men and children managed the tour, my friends and I reminisced about our last visit. On that occasion, I set foot on HMS Victory and distinctly remember the guide sharing the story about the origins of the phrase ‘square meal’. Read the rest of this entry »
Dorset Voices is a wonderful showcase of literary talent and new photography in Dorset. The editorial team (Jim Potts OBE, Maria Strani-Potts and Louisa Adjoa Parker) selected prose, poetry and photography submissions from across the county and with local publisher Roving Press, this makes the anthology and all-Dorset production.
The launch of Dorset Voices will take place on 23 April as part of Bournemouth Festival of Words. Please come to Bournemouth Library, 22 The Triangle, BH2 5RQ from 6-8pm to meet the editors and publisher and purchase copies of the book. I’ve offered to read ‘Dusting off the Memories’ my piece of flash fiction from the anthology and there will be other contributors sharing their work. The event falls on World Book Night and the library will be busy with a number of events including a live theatre performance of scenes from ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’. I think it will be a great occasion and I hope to see some of you there.
On one the most beautiful days of this year, I was in Waterstones, Dorchester selling copies of The Rosemary Project. The anthology comprises poetry and prose by writers from across Dorset and all money raised goes towards Alzheimer’s Research and Mindful (which supports a memory cafe in North Dorset). Although The Rosemary Project was the branch best-seller for the day, I only managed to sell eleven copies. Read the rest of this entry »
There’s splashing in the fishpond when I put out the rubbish and I guess the frogs are at it again. I find a torch and shine it over. Some of them are riding piggy back like double headed beasts. There’s at least a dozen in there – that must make it an orgy. A toad sits on the edge, winking at me. His ungainly body becomes lithe when he springs into the water. I watch the activity like a voyeur then I scuttle back to the kitchen. Read the rest of this entry »
Thanks to the photos of the overland (taken by Philip Wadds), the site statistics for this blog have gone bonkers. Google is doing a fantastic job in promoting my blog but it now leaves me wondering if I’m offering my regular followers the content you want. Thanks to the lovely people who have made comments, I am encouraged. But now that I’ve been blogging for three months, I’d like to take stock.
My aim was to blog about all things writerly including interviews, discussion on books and writing, ideas for writing, and support for other writers. I hope the posts have been interesting and informative. I do get a little distracted as I am at the minute, because I can’t resist posting another photo from Philip’s album. Please excuse the absence of a literary link, but I will try to make it topical.
The Exchange at Sturminster Newton was a busy place on Saturday with workshops and talks by authors and a good chance to meet and chat with other readers and writers. I finally got to meet fellow blogger Patsy Collins who has recently won a competition to have her first novel published. Watch this space for more details of her book titled ‘Escape to the Country’.
Patrick Gale
I loved reading Notes from an exhibition by Patrick Gale and opted to join his workshop on flash fiction. I was interested when he said that a character’s back story from a novel can make an excellent piece of flash. This was reassuring as several of my latest attempts have been just that.
Patrick was also keen to promote entry into the Bridport Prize ( he is the judge for the flash fiction and short story categories) and
Yearning
Holding the phone to his ear, he counts the rings. Claire answers on the fourth.
‘Is your mother still there?’ He doesn’t wait for a greeting.
‘She’s taken the kids into town.’
‘So that’s more free childcare for you.’
‘She offered,’ Claire draws a breath.
‘I’d look after your children anytime.You know I would. I’ve asked often enough.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Claire exhales and he guesses she’s taken up smoking again.
‘When your mother gets back, can you give me a call?’
‘Fine.’ The line goes dead.
‘Fine.’ He returns the handset to its cradle.
Sitting in the armchair, he stretches his legs. Settled for the afternoon, he watches the grey belly of sky through the window and he gropes behind the curtain. Finding the bottle he swirls it, watching the whisky lick the sides. There’s enough to keep him going, for the rest of the day at least. In the tumbler grimy with fingerprints, he pours a large one. Titling the glass, he savours the peaty smell and his nose tweaks at the prospect of a good, steady slug. There’s a nub of anaesthesia as he swallows and his shoulders relax. Smacking his lips as he downs the last drop, he nurses the glass between his fingers.With his eyelids sagging, the tension drifts.
The trill of the telephone wakes him but he doesn’t answer. Instead he talks to the darkened room.
‘Call yourself my daughter? You’re a bloody bitch – you’ve been one since the day you were born.’
This piece of flash fiction currently appears on the National Flash Fiction Day website. National Flash Fiction Day is held on 16 May 2012.
